Self Help 101
by blank82
Summary: Literati. Nag Hammadi alt. ending. Oneshot


_Reasoning_, it had read. _Reasoning, letters, begging, flowers, candy, singing, kidnapping, pleading--_

101 Ways to Get Her Back, was what the damn book said. Numbers 22- 30, Page 37, lesson 4. He'd stared at it for five consecutive minutes, pretending to be browsing a Punk Planet magazine, before finally giving into impulse and smuggling it under his jacket, silently cursing his lingering fatal affection for his past and strolling quickly from the store.

Wow. 101 ways and yet all he could do was stand there in the parking lot staring stupidly into her eyes. There was something about her eyes that made him seem like he was the only guy in the entire screwed up world that mattered, and yet at the same time still make him feel like dirt at the bottom of his shoe. He felt vulnerable, and he didn't like it. He was flipped over on his back beneath a great huge ax positioned above the exposed flesh of his emotions and she, of all people, was holding the ax.

_Reasoning_, he repeated in his head, _Reasoning, letters, begging, reasoning, letters, begging, reasoning, letters, begging…_

He couldn't bring himself to say anything, and she was starting to turn away, resentment written on her face. He wanted to kick himself. Say something damn it--

"I love you," he blurted out.

Whoa. Was that in the book? He'd have to check later.

She stopped, resentment replaced by bewilderment, replaced by confusion, soon to be followed by an indescribable expression. Fury? Nonchalance? Acceptance? It was hard to tell.

A second passed, then two, three… he lost track after that

"Do you…" she started, clearing her throat, "Do you have to go back?"

'You're leaving?' he knew was what she meant, 'You self-serving condescending manipulative bastard, you're leaving aren't you?'

He nodded in confirmation, she averted her eyes to focus on the graveled parking lot at their feet and started to turn around again.

An unfamiliar panic gripped his gut. Like watching a train crash in slow motion. Last chance, he knew. It was his last chance. All strings of any possible lingering hope for their dysfunctional relationship would be cut off in a matter of seconds after this and he god help him, he wasn't ready to let go yet.

His mouth moved, the words rolling hoarsely off his tongue, "Wait for me?"

That was it. The ax was poised. She looked at him in surprise, obviously confused. Of course she was confused. Hell, even he was confused.

'Don't say no,' he silently screamed at her, all while retaining a relaxed composition on the outside. Did she know he was crumbling like a puppet with all it's strings hacked off inside? Did she know that she single-handed held all the power in the world to rip his guts out and crush them beneath her feet? Did she know she made him buy a damn Self- Help Book for god's sake?

'Don't say no,' he was screaming at her through his mind. Telekinetic, was what it's called. Communication through brain waves. It was stupid and desperate, but hello, he'd already bought a self-help book, god help him,and you can't be stupid and desperate when you've already been crowned king of stupid and desperate, 'Don't say no. Don't say no. Don't—

"Okay."

Relief. Like resurfacing from a hundred meter dive.

He managed to relax his trembling fingers, which previously had been digging blood from the palms of his hands.

"Okay," he repeated after her. The ax had been dropped to the side with a reclined clang.

She offered a small smile and turned around to leave, getting back to her mother, who he could see even from a distance was arguing with the booth attendant on whether or not the milk bottle game was rigged.

The strings in his stomach were released, the tension had subsided and for a minute, he just stood there, staring at the ground where she had stood, wondering whether he was on acid or just insane. Fuck, he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

He finally climbed into his car, taking a long overdue drag from the cigarette which had been previously resting on the dashboard. Catching sight of a certain self-help paperback cover tucked halfway under the seat, he paused long enough to flip through it. Nowhere did it say 'Spill your guts out in a sanity-wrenching confession after buying this lousy book.' And smiling to himself, tossed the damn thing out the window without a second glance.

This, my friend, is called retaliating.


End file.
